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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27141959">My Heart, Dressed Like The Dead</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/George_the_Pumpkin/pseuds/George_the_Pumpkin'>George_the_Pumpkin</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkness34/pseuds/Run%20Im%20A%20Natural%20Disaster'>Run Im A Natural Disaster (Darkness34)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Run! and George Do Whumptober 2020 [8]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Lockwood &amp; Co. - Jonathan Stroud</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Feels, Blood Loss, Book 3: The Hollow Boy, Bring tissues, Character Death, Day 10: They Look So Pretty When They Bleed, Day 11: Psych 1101, Day 17: I Did Not See That Coming, Day 18: Panic! At The Disco, Day 24: You're Not Making Any Sense, Day 25: I Think I'll Just Collapse Right Here Thanks, Day 30: Now Where Did That Come From, Day 31: Today's Special: Torture, Day 9: For the Greater Good, F/M, Feels, Gen, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, He is angry!, He will find you and he will kill you, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I hope you remember me in therapy, I'm Sorry, Ignoring an Injury, It's Not Paranoia If They're Really Out To Get You, Left for Dead, Lockwood and Co. is on the case, Lockwood's about to go full Roy Mustang revenge in this, Major Character Injury, Murderers, Mystery, Paranoia, Punctured, Ringing Ears, Run!, Struggling, Trail of Blood, What-If, Whump, Whumptober, Whumptober 2020, get ready to cry my dudes, the kids aren't alright, wrongfully accused</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 21:15:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,802</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27141959</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/George_the_Pumpkin/pseuds/George_the_Pumpkin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkness34/pseuds/Run%20Im%20A%20Natural%20Disaster</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Warily, he opened the door.</p><p>Standing on the step was Inspector Barnes. Lockwood has seen Barnes in many fashions over the years - stern when he’d investigated the rug Carver died on, disappointed and angry when he’d accidentally burned down Mrs. Hope’s house, frantic when he’d arrived at Combe Carey Hall, but never had he seen the old inspector look so defeated. He looked even more grim than usual, his bulky mustache seemed to droop like a sad caterpillar. </p><p>“Ah, Mr. Lockwood, I’m afraid I come bearing bad news...terrible business, terrible…,” he drifted off, looking even more depressed. “May I come in? This is news best taken sitting down, I think.”</p><p>-</p><p>What if Lucy’s injuries from the park chase were more severe? </p><p>Canon divergence - Creeping Shadow</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Implied Lockwood/Lucy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Run! and George Do Whumptober 2020 [8]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1950496</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>29</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Sorrow Found Me When I Was Young</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Umm, we'd just like to say in advance that we're sorry. We hope you don't hate us too much. Also, we hope you brought tissues 'cause you're gonna need them.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Lockwood jerked upright in bed as an unholy racket shattered the silence of the night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked around blearily; his room was gently illuminated with pre-dawn light, everything painted in soft shades of gray and blue and purple. The hard edges of furniture made gentle and round, books changed into lovely shadows. It was enchanting and normally Lockwood would have found himself enjoying the subtle play of shifting colors as the sun rose but, honestly, he was exhausted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He and George had just wrapped up a case involving what had seemed to be an entire </span>
  <em>
    <span>herd </span>
  </em>
  <span>of disgruntled cats, a powerful visitor locked inside a little old ladies knitting needles, and an..ahem...</span>
  <em>
    <span>incident</span>
  </em>
  <span> that could have been avoided if only they’d had a decent listener along with them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that he was bitter about that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was just disappointed that despite George’s assurances that the research all pointed to it being an easy case - </span>
  <em>
    <span>in and out, no listening required Lockwood. The death glow is supposed to be heinously bright and the source should be close to it, don’t worry - </span>
  </em>
  <span>it had taken him so long to realize that the knitting needles had been sources for </span>
  <em>
    <span>two </span>
  </em>
  <span>ghosts instead of one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was like the Wimbleton Wraiths case all over again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Only this time there was no timely Fittes rescue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had been a close call. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>True, they had survived with only a few bruises to serve as a testament to what happened but the countless </span>
  <em>
    <span>what-ifs </span>
  </em>
  <span>haunted Lockwood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even thinking about it set his teeth on edge, and raised the fine hair on the back of his arms and neck. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Based on George’s research it should have been an easy case.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>According to the old newspaper clippings and police reports he had scrounged up in the National Archives, the knitting needles had been the murder weapon in the grisley Brown-Taylor Stabbings. Where Mrs. Brown-Taylor had stabbed her 2-month old baby to death with her knitting needles in a fit of irrationality; believing the infant to be a demon sent from hell to torture her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The needles had been cleaned and subsequently donated to The Victoria and Albert Museum, where they sat in the display case alongside an iron sewing machine and handmade lavender soap before being purchased by old Nanny Edda.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They weren’t expecting anything stronger than a stone-knocker. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything went as expected for the first couple of hours. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It seemed to be a slow one, where the ghost took hours to manifest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, at around 10, a shade had appeared in the dining room. It seemed content to pace in the corner.  But if approached it would flicker erratically, draw back into wherever it’s source was, and manifest somewhere else. It was a supremely annoying game of tag.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They had finally narrowed it down to the guest bedroom when George got a funny look on his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was watching the room and door for any sign of the shade while Lockwood searched for the source.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lockwood, is it just me, or does it look slightly different?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lockwood glanced at the door quickly, but kept most of his attention on inspecting the room, “What? No. It was a shade, it’s still a shade.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The room contained a dresser with a mirror that took up most of one wall, a nightstand, a small bookshelf, and a double bed. It was tastefully decorated, though a bit old fashioned.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No hollow spots had been found in the walls and the floorboards were tight.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It just looks more substantial to me than before. Like it’s a specter.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lockwood turned to look more closely at it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It did seem more solid than he thought at first.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm, it does, but I could have sworn it was a shade.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is,” George murmured. He shifted closer to Lockwood, facing the room. “There’s two now. The other one, the shade, is by the bed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lockwood drew his rapier from his belt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’ve been playing with us.” George realized. “I thought it strange that a shade could manifest throughout the whole house. Normally, a type one wouldn’t be strong enough to wander that far from its source.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The night got more interesting from there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The specter, bored of its game, was now openly hostile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knick knacks that had lined the dresser and bookshelf were blown around the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>George bowled over Lockwood to prevent him from getting brained by a decorative giraffe. Then Lockwood ripped off a magazine that had wrapped itself around George’s face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Find those needles!” Lockwood shouted as he fought the specter. Working not to trip over the detritus all over the floor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>George shot up from his position on the floor. “Where would an old lady keep her sewing stuff?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How should I know?! Do I look like an old lady to you?!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George grinned instead of replying. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stumbling through the psychic storm, he half-ran, half-fell into the dresser. Bracing himself on the lip of the dresser, he threw open the drawers and began to rummage through its contents. Old magazines, art supplies, worn photographs fell to the floor where George carelessly tossed them until finally, the last drawer revealed itself to be filled with yarn and scraps of fabric.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hooted in excitement. Hands already digging through the drawer for the source. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lockwood!” he shouted. “I think I’ve found it!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s great, George! But if you could possibly </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurry it up!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lockwood yelped, tripping over his feet in his haste to dodge the mirror as it dislodged from the dresser with a hideous crack, the wood splintering. It sailed across the room, buffeted along by unseen air currents, and smashed into the wall above Lockwood’s head. His arms curved protectively over his head, shielding his face from the falling glass. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The glass tinkled merrily to the floor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lockwood watched as a particularly large shard rose into the air, dagger-sharp and gleaming as it sinisterly reflected the meager light. It spun lazily in circles as it hovered. Lockwood adjusted his stance, raised his rapier, eyes glued to the swirling glass before him. As he watched, the glass slowly stopped its gyrations. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It hung suspended in the air, completely still. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sighed out a breath turned strangled gasp as the glass shard hurled through the air, point first, towards him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He ducked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“George!” Lockwood shouted. “Seal the source!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He swung his rapier like a baseball bat. The side of the blade collided with the glass shard sending bits of glass flying. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lockwood ducked behind his arm again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Long splinters of glass impaled the sleeve of his coat, their tips biting into the flesh of his arm. He shook himself, dislodging the glass, eyes watchful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George fumbled a silver net box from his belt. Quickly he opened and shook the net out, laying it over the knitting needles. It looked more like he was tucking them into bed rather than containing a dangerous psychic artifact. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lockwood bit his tongue. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was so sick of friends treating ghosts like they were something to be pitied. They were monsters and he </span>
  <em>
    <span>hated </span>
  </em>
  <span>them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The air popped. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>George cleared his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just remembered- well, it’s really nothing but- Now probably isn’t the time to tell you that I found some rumors that some people reported hearing sibilant whispering coming from the knitting needles. Mrs. Brown-Taylor muttering her visions or some crock. I didn’t put much stock into it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nervously rubbed his glasses against the grubby fabric of his shirt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lockwood glared at him, swiped his fringe away. “And you didn’t think to tell me? You can’t keep information to yourself, George, no matter how unimportant it seems to you. We could have waited for Holly and then maybe this whole mess could have been avoided,” He gestured to the carnage around them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At length he sighed, shoulders slumping. It had been a very long, frustrating night and suddenly he wanted nothing more than to go to bed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on. We’ve got a source to burn.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>It was well past midnight by the time he and George had trudged their way up the steps to 35 Portland Row.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He fumbled around on his nightstand for his watch. Picking it up he pressed the button to illuminate its face. 2:00 am. Lockwood groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face to wake himself up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was very tempted to just lie back down in bed and ignore that he’d heard the bell outside ring. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was probably just another nonsense case, that could wait until a reasonable time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But, he sighed, he was a respectable business owner and it was his civic duty to answer all calls for help, despite how sometimes he very much would not like to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stumbling out of bed on uncoordinated limbs, he snatched his blue bathrobe from the hook on his door and trudged sleepily across the landing. He yawned widely; grasping the banister with one hand he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and attempted to wrangle his hair into some semblance of order. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The entry hall was dark, not a sound came from the darkness. His first stop was not the door but the window. The street outside was flickering between light and dark as further down the street the ghost lamp clicked on and off. It wasn’t very bright but squinting through the glass he could make out a large form standing impatiently beyond the iron line. The light clicked off. Lockwood waited. Three minutes later the light clicked on again. He squinted harder, the figure looked familiar but it was hard to tell. People tend to look similar in the dark after all. Moving away from the window, he fumbled along the wall, feeling for the skull lantern they had by the door. He cursed when he banged his wrist against the underside of the table sending bolts of pain up his arm. Still cursing, he searched more carefully before finally finding the 'on' switch. Gratefully, he flipped it, instantly washing the hall in pale, yellow light.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Warily, he grabbed a spare rapier from the pot and opened the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Immediately, his posture relaxed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Standing on the step was Inspector Barnes, looking more hangdog and weather-worn and downcast than ever. Lockwood has seen Barnes in many fashions over the years - stern when he’d investigated the rug Carver died on, disappointed and angry when he’d accidentally burned down Mrs. Hope’s house, frantic when he’d arrived at Combe Carey Hall, but never had he seen the old inspector look so defeated. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lockwood’s gut twisted with anxiety. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked even more grim than usual, his bulky mustache seemed to droop like a sad caterpillar. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, Mr. Lockwood, I’m afraid I come bearing bad news...terrible business, terrible…,” he drifted off, looking even more depressed. “May I come in? This is news best taken sitting down, I think.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Disturbed Lockwood let him inside, his mind immediately flashing back to when he’d learned that his parents had been killed, Jessica a solid presence beside him. “Should I fetch George? He wears earplugs or his own snores wake him up; he wouldn’t have woken up from all that racket.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Barnes nodded and he left Barnes in the library and went to wake up George.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Too soon they were all sitting in the library. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you want any tea or biscuits?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, no, thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Barnes' answer was distant like he was trying to find the words for what he had to say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They sat in uncomfortable silence for a few moments. Lockwood resisted the urge to fidget; his fingers rested elegantly in his lap yearning for some action, some movement. He unconsciously tapped a staccato on his thigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Barnes was still quiet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lockwood wanted to scream and shake Barnes by the collar and demand to know what had happened. What terrible thing had occurred that couldn't wait for morning?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His insides tied themselves in knots; worsening the longer he sat there waiting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His fingers tapped again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lockwood stilled them. He reached for the cup of tea in front of him. Eager to give his hands something else to do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m afraid it is my unfortunate duty to inform you that Ms. Carlyle has passed away,” he paused here letting the information sink in a little into their gobsmacked minds. “As her former employer, you have the contact information for her family. I know this is a shock, but if you could pass along the information so I may contact her family.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Time ground to a grating halt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lockwood’s teacup slipped from his suddenly slack fingers to shatter on the library floor, tea staining the carpet like blood. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beside him, George inhaled sharply and forgot to breathe again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nobody moved. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lockwood and George sat as if they’d both been ghostlocked; scarcely breathing, limbs rigid, eyes blown wide with disbelief.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly, George’s upper lip began to tremble, his eyes sheened. “How...” he croaked, “How did- What happ- Where is she?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Inspector Barnes sighed, cleared his throat, clasped and unclasped his fingers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cause of death has not been determined yet but at this point, we’re assuming it was murder,” he hesitated. “There were...quite a few signs of a struggle.” He sighed again, “DEPRAC is taking all the necessary precautions but she’ll probably be back to haunt us within a fortnight.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where is she?” George repeated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Until her family retrieves her, the body will be at DEPRAC.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The body.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yeah, right.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A rapier stabbing them in the heart would hurt less. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lockwood hated himself for making a connection between now and his parent's deaths at the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If only he hadn’t been thinking of death she wouldn’t be dead. He was the common factor between his parents, Jessica, and now Lucy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe, he was cursed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cursed to lose all those he got close to. All those he loved. Faulty logic, but who ever said that grief made people logical. His world was crashing down for the third time. How many times can a person be broken? How many times can a person be put back together again? Would they be the same?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lockwood didn’t know.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George mumbled something about finding Lucy’s information and left the room, his cheeks were ruddy, his face pinched in anguish. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lockwood barely noticed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything was muffled, like a TV down low in another room where everything seemed unintelligible and confusing. The dialogue of the actors barely recognizable as words.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> He sat frozen, in that constipated priest pose that George had teased Lucy about so long ago, thinking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He came back to himself when he realized the noise around him was gone. Barnes had stopped his droning sympathies to take the card from George.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, boys. You have my condolences.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Barnes turned to go but stopped short of the door, he glanced over his shoulder at them. The professional demeanor he had kept during the visit gone, in its place genuine sympathy. “I am sorry,” he expressed, eyes sad. “I understand she was a close friend.” A pause followed and he cleared his throat uncomfortably. “And... I’m not….technically supposed to do this but….you could collect her possessions.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really?” George said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, yes. They’ll be in an evidence locker, just show up at headquarters in the morning and I will direct you where you need to go. Oh, and her flat will need to be cleared out as well. I imagine you know where she has been living recently. I’ll leave you to figure out the details for that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a final parting nod, he let himself out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lockwood and George stared at the door for a long time after he left. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>George stared down at the rug where Carver had once lied with a knife in his chest. Brutally murdered at the hand of Joplin. The image of Lucy in the same position filled his mind and a sob rose in his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lockwood put his arms around George and lowered them both to the floor. Rubbing George’s back as he sobbed into his chest. His eyes were far away, staring unseeingly over George’s shoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Some months before, Lockwood and Lucy had emerged, hand-in-hand from the ruins of Aickmere’s Department Store. He remembered the conversation they had had in the buried prison. The way he had half-jokingly stated that he would die for her. He had meant it, even after he saw the way it affected her. If him dying meant Lucy lived, then he would die a hundred times over for her. Like the sun died each night to let the moon live. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But what nobody ever remembers is that the moon also dies for the sun; an endless, </span>
  <em>
    <span>pointless </span>
  </em>
  <span>cycle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everyone just ends up dead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What was the point?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why did it have to </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurt </span>
  </em>
  <span>so much? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he could he would tear his own traitorous heart from his chest; hollow himself out until he felt nothing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A hollow boy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hadn’t realized how much she had affected him until she left. How she had filled that hollow space inside him. Brought life and excitement and thrill back to him; he’d started to take an actual interest in his friends, started to open up about himself, started to care about something other than hunting ghosts again and again and again. He didn’t know if he could go back to living a hollow life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lockwood leaned his head against the wall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At some point in the night, they’d ended up leaning against the entryway wall. George encased in Lockwood’s arms. It wasn’t comfortable, Lockwood’s legs were asleep. He dreaded the moment he would have to stand up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No doubt his legs would make him pay for putting them in such an awkward position the instant he tried to stand. He could almost feel the pins and needles already. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His toes curled in response. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>George’s head lolled on his chest, his breathing even. His face was pale and blotchy, dried tear tracks shiny on his face from where he’d cried himself to sleep. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lockwood couldn’t even imagine sleep. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The image of Lucy haunted him in his waking moments, it would be worse if he was to sleep. Inevitable nightmares recalling every moment they had spent together and twisting them to show him how much he failed her and everyone else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, he’d sat alone with his thoughts, waiting for day to come.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The room began to lighten. Shadows creeping along the walls, the floor; twisting and flexing like tentacles. They grasped at Lockwood and George. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lockwood looked up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The light coming in from the window gently illuminated George’s sleeping face; he shifted, tilting his head up, unconsciously rising to greet the light. Behind him, Lockwood was cast in darkness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was cold in the dark.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He subtly shifted so that his legs fell into a patch of sunlight, sighing in relief when the sun’s warmth hit him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He watched as the dawn broke on the horizon flooding the sky with brilliant streaks of red and pink and orange and yellow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lazily, his eyes traced the sun's slow ascent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On his chest, George stirred. The light from the rising sun shining in his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mmmm,” he hummed sleepily. “Lockwood? Why are we-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His breath caught and Lockwood could see the exact moment that George remembered the events of the night. His face twisted with fresh grief, his breathing increased. Lockwood tightened his arms around him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We have to go soon,” Lockwood said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>George sniffled in response, nodding his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll go to the yard, get Lucy’s things, and then-” Lockwood’s eyes narrowed, his fingers clenching down on George’s arms. George yelped, surprised eyes shining with tears and caution flying to Lockwood’s face. “Barnes said it was murder and I intend to find out </span>
  <em>
    <span>exactly </span>
  </em>
  <span>what happened.” </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>like you, I can’t sleep, because I love too many things, and my heart, dressed like the dead, overflows toward the universe.</p><p>— Miguel Hernández, tr by Robert Bly, from The Selected Poems: “Death”</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Sorrow Waited</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which Lockwood is introspective and a trip to DEPRAC sets in motion a life-changing adventure</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The description of DEPRAC in this chapter is not totally canon so sorry but we do what we want 🤘🤘</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The sound of the door opening startled both of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you two doing on the floor?” Holly asked immediately, shutting the door behind her with a soft click. Her eyebrows pulled together as she took a closer look at them, trepidation clear on her face. “What’s happened?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Holly… Holly,” George croaked. “Lucy’s dead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Holly gasped wetly, her stylish purse falling to the floor from suddenly slack fingers.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No, no no, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she cried, sinking to her knees to join them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lockwood and George each put an arm around her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so it was, as the new light of dawn stretched across the floorboards like so many grasping fingers, that Lockwood and Co., its three remaining agents, held each other desperately and wept.</span>
</p><p><span>*</span> <span>*</span> <span>*</span> <span>*</span> <span>*</span></p><p>
  <span>The London headquarters for the Department of Psychical Research and Control was a massive affair. When it had first been constructed in the early 1970’s it had consisted of a single lopsided three-story building and a wooden guard station with a mud floor and a single wooden chair that barely fit inside the shack. Now, years after the problem was first reported, the complex was split into four buildings that encompassed three city blocks. Sleek skyway bridges connected the buildings together, a courtyard snuggled in the center of the overarching buildings, giving the complex an almost hacienda</span>
  <span> appearance.[1] The entire thing was neatly nestled behind a monstrous iron fence. Iron charms hung from the fences elegantly welded spearheads like sinister Christmas garlands. Tall half-towers occupied each of the fences four corners. Smoke drifted from these towers as highly trained stokers ensured that the lavender fires nestled in great cast iron bowls on the towers' open platforms burned every hour of every day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And to make it even more like a medieval castle, the entire complex, fence and all, was surrounded by a narrow moat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was one of the most psychically defended areas in London besides Fitte’s House and Rotwell’s. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not to mention, one of the securest against human threats.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In order to even enter the complex, you had to have an appointment.</span>
  <span>[2]</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And even then all visitors had to check-in at the guard gate, go through long, boring security measures to ensure that you </span>
  <em>
    <span>weren’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>smuggling goods onto the premises, going to blow up said premises, and/or steal official government secrets. A usually arrogant escort would then accompany you to where you needed to go and no further. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was an arduous process and Lockwood hated it on a good day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Today was not a good day. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The trip through the guard station seemed to take twice as long as it normally did. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two guards - a tall one with a hunched back and a young man with the biggest ears Lockwood had ever seen - were manning the station today. They moved seamlessly around each other. Quasimodo - as Lockwood had named him - gestured Holly through the metal detector, while Dumbo patted George down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They said nothing as they worked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lockwood ground his teeth together, tapping his fingers impatiently against the plastic armrest of his chair, as he waited for them to finish going through security. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d been irritable all morning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His body felt too small, cramped; as though his soul...essence...whatever it was...was one wrong move from bursting through the fragile layer of skin. The confinement made him feel prickly and off-footed. It was itchy and distracting and it was becoming increasingly difficult not to snap at every little thing. Even the near-silent tick of the clock on the wall seemed to be too loud, too much. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It grated on his already frayed nerves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He rubbed his arms, distractedly, the movement pushing up his shirt sleeves. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It did little to dispel the itch he could feel under his skin but it made him feel just a little calmer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The soft sting of his nails moving across his skin grounding.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He kept scratching.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he waited he watched. Brown eyes solemnly noting every detail of his friend’s faces.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George’s face was the very picture of abject misery. Blank eyes downcast and red-rimmed, mouth turned downwards in a severe frown, an aura of subdued, sullenness draped across him like a cloak. Lockwood watched as he sludged through security with all the dreary, tombstone silence of a wraith. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cold. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quiet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Passively following all the instructions the guards gave without any sarcastic quips or rude remarks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was downright unnatural.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It worried Lockwood. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>George had always felt things more acutely than he did. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that Lockwood didn’t feel things. But perhaps it was just that his reaction was different.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grief was an emotion he was used to bearing in silence. A bag he carried with him everywhere yet tried desperately to ignore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But where grief made Lockwood quiet, it made George loud. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lucy’s sudden vanishing act had cut him to the quick. She had hurt him and he hadn’t been afraid to point that out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d blustered and shouted and sniped at anyone unfortunate enough to talk to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Poor Holly had been subjected to the brute force of George’s anger on more than one occasion. It had been frustrating but Lockwood didn’t know what he was supposed to do. Could he have told George off? Admonished him for letting his emotions get the better of him? For treating Holly like everything was her fault?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But...none of them had felt like the right thing to do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Lockwood had sat back and just....let George do whatever he needed to get it out of his system.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And for the most part, it seemed to have worked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As time passed, he’d mellowed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Accepted the way things were now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, there were still times when he’d verbally bite someone’s head off. But they were further and further apart. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had cleared up even more after the Ealing Cannibal case. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lockwood had tried not to eavesdrop, tried to give his friends their space but he couldn’t stop himself from watching as they’d made up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He remembered smiling at them from the window of the taxi, certain that things were getting back to normal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was strange, in a way, George and Lucy had despised each other when they’d first met. They’d bumped heads for months after Lucy was hired. In fact, he didn’t think they’d truly warmed up to each other until they’d had their frantic race to stay alive in Combe Carey Hall. After that they’d been thick as thieves… or at least their arguments had transformed more into the constant bickering between siblings rather than those of sworn enemies.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lockwood knew how hard it was to lose a sibling, to be unable to help them. It wasn’t a feeling he’d wish on anyone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was no wonder that George had acted the way he had. That he was acting this way now. Lockwood was sure that he’d reacted just the same to Jessica’s death. Though the specifics were foggier now and he couldn’t seem to clearly remember anything of those dreadful weeks following the death of the last of his family.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It reminded Lockwood of a line from a poem he had heard a long time ago. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Grief is just love with no place to go</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Holly, his eyes traced a path back to her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looked more disheveled and stressed than Lockwood had ever seen her - face wiped clean of all emotion, normally smooth gestures made rigid from shock and a forced calmness that looked as ill-fitting on her as an oversized smock. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looked terrible. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She hadn’t even looked this bad after the terrible battle in Aickmere’s. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was surprising to Lockwood how upset she was. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why was </span>
  <em>
    <span>she</span>
  </em>
  <span> upset? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They hadn’t been anything more than tentative friends.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lucy had never liked Holly; had never warmed up to her in the slightest. Lucy had slung barb after barb at her, yet Holly had never wavered in her attempts to befriend Lucy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe that was it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lucy might not have liked Holly but Holly had liked Lucy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But, Lockwood reflected, maybe her grief was different from his and George’s. While they were grieving for their friend and sister in all but blood, Holly was grieving the chances that had been open to them. The chance to become Lucy’s friend. The chance to win her trust. The chance to grow closer to her, to understand how she ticked. The chance to be let in on the secrets the three original members kept close to their hearts. But now they’d never get the opportunity to see what might have been.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His observations were cut off as the door beside him opened. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A scarecrow thin man sauntering into the guard station like he owned the place, a snobbish expression curling his lip as he took in the pitiful forms before him. Every strand of his dark hair perfectly gelled into place, not a wrinkle to be found in his perfectly pressed suit nor smudge to be seen on his pristine gold watch. The man walked confidently over to Quasimodo, the heels of his brogues clicking loudly with each step. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lockwood instantly disliked him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Who did he think he was? Waltzing in here and acting like he had any right to judge them after the night they’d had. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>How very dare he.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If looks could kill, the man would have been a smoldering pile of ectoplasm on the floor from the force of Lockwood’s glare.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unfortunately, the man didn’t even seem to notice Lockwood glaring at him. Instead, he leaned down and began to talk quietly with Quasimodo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lockwood sighed, dropped his eyes to his arms, and was startled to see that he was still absently scratching his arm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For the first time, he noticed that the skin he’d been abusing was red and irritated, cracked in places. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulled his sleeve down and ignored it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eyes returning to their escort he smoothly abandoned his chair in favor of leaning against the wall. Ready to leave as soon as possible. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His mouth curved downwards in a frown as their guide impatiently checked his watch, fingers tapping briefly on his arm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A shoulder bumped into his as George joined Lockwood by the wall. All three of them waited in silence for Holly to finish up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dumbo motioned Holly through the metal detector before nodding towards the group in dismissal. Holly gives him a plastic smile and walks towards them. She greets their escort, the bland smile still on her face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Barely sparing him a glance, Lockwood pushed off the wall. Ignoring the cordial greetings the escort exchanged with Holly. Their escort - Laurence, he introduced himself as he shook Holly’s hand - pushed open the door, gesturing for them to go through.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Falling into step alongside George, Lockwood trudged behind Laurence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His thoughts thumping rabbit fast through his mind; he pinched the bridge of his nose. Wishing that his thoughts would slow down and let him think.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How had everything gone wrong so quickly?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even now,  he couldn’t pinpoint the moment things began to fall apart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Had it been when Lucy had gone to visit her family?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When she’d returned?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aickmere’s? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps, it had even started earlier than that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps, it all started when Lucy heard the skull speak for the first time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After that things seemed to… go downhill.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So gradually and so subtly that he hadn’t even known he was falling until he hit the ground. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He missed Lucy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he’d started missing her before she’d gone away. She’d been distant and...distracted and he’d been meaning to talk to her about that. Except she’d just upped and quit - no explanation; she hadn’t even trusted him enough to tell him the truth, she’d just left...and now-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was too late. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And the worst part was he wasn’t sure he had anyone to blame but himself.</span>
</p><p><span> *</span> <span>*</span> <span>*</span> <span>*</span> <span>*</span></p><p>
  <span>The thing about your thoughts racing from one subject to the next to the next to the next, next, next with no end in sight was that you very often missed what was happening around you. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so it was that Lockwood managed to miss walking across two parking lots, climbing five sets of stairs, walking down no less than twelve hallways, and waiting for a grand total of fifteen minutes (all together) for Laurence to input codes and swipe cards in order to open security door after security door for them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The other thing about your thoughts tangling like yarn was that very often - despite all the thinking you’d done - the conclusions you reached were oftentimes </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or, in Lockwood’s case, simply tied yourself up in so many knots that it was impossible to tell where one thought stopped and another began.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so it was that when Lockwood blinked himself into awareness he was surprised to find himself standing outside Barnes’ office.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Laurence rapped smartly on the door, “Lockwood and Company for you, sir,” he called through the wood. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A muffled reply sounded from the other side of the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nodding, Laurence turned and glared at them, disdainfully. “Inspector Barnes will see you now. Do try not to waste his time. I will return to fetch you once you have finished your meeting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lockwood smiled painfully at him, “Thank you,” he turned to the door before looking back at him. “Though, I must say you make a splendid errand boy.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He opened the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To the untrained eye, Barnes’ office seemed to be as dull and boring as Barnes himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This impression is incorrect.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is, in fact, plainer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The carpeting inside Barnes’ office was a boring shade of brown, the peeling paint on the walls an even worse shade of off-white that was so dingy it might as well have been black. The only furniture in the office was a rickety-legged wooden desk, an antique floor lamp, a bland painting of a mallard, and two chintz patterned armchairs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There were no windows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Inspector Barnes, looking just as crumpled and hang dogged as he had the previous night, was seated behind his desk. Overflowing paper trays swamped the far corner of the desk, which leans precariously to the side under the weight. A small box sat on the desk in front of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He greeted us gravely from behind his desk, leaned forward, and indicated that we should sit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Striding the two steps between the door and the chair, Lockwood perched himself in one of the armchairs. Holly claimed the other.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone had squeezed in a small footstool between the two armchairs. George eyed it for a second before settling heavily onto its minuscule surface. The stool groaned in protest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll get straight to the point,” Barnes said. “Here are the items we found on Miss Carlyle.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Barnes slid the box across the desk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment nobody moved. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They stared at the box like Barnes had told them it was filled with live, venomous snakes or pandora’s box of monsters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lockwood’s fingers trembled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Barnes grunted impatiently, “Well, go on. Do you want it or not?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George sprang to life at that, worry painting deep furrows across his face. “We do!” the words were nearly a shout.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We do,” he repeated softer, "it’s just..errr..I think Lockwood should be the one to open it...erm...he is the owner of Lockwood and Co. after all. And Lucy was one of his agents so...really...he should do it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lockwood started to protest. But, he thought, in a way George did make a good point. Lucy had been his responsibility. His employee to pay, to protect, to be the best possible employer he could be. He hadn’t stopped caring about her when she’d left. Hadn’t written her off as just a former employee and gone on with his life. The least he could do now was make sure that her things weren’t just tossed in the bin and forgotten about.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Holly looked worried. “George, I don’t think-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“George is right,” he interrupted. Not sure if he was reassuring himself or Holly more, “I’ll do it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Carefully, he pried the lid off the box, freezing when he saw what was inside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was one thing to be told that Lucy had been murdered. A vague concept. But here was the evidence. Her clothes covered in blood and ripped almost to shreds. He tentatively reached inside and grasped Lucy’s shirt - her favorite black one, he mourned. Turning it over in his hands he felt along it, fingers catching in the numerous cuts in the fabric. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bits and bobs littered the bottom of the box. Gum wrappers and half-eaten chocolate bars. A business card for the Clerkenwell furnaces. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shifted the box and a glint of silver sparkled from where it had been hidden in the folds of the clothes. Slowly he reached his hand in and pulled the chain out. It was the necklace he had given her. Just before they had left for the Fittes Ball. He dropped it like the metal had burned him and hurriedly shoved the lid back on the box.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He couldn’t deal with this here. Not with people around to witness his tears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He took a deep breath, pushing the tears threatening to spill back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, and there’s this as well.” Barnes fumbled for something behind his desk. The something turned out to be a long cloth wrapped item. When Barnes released it, it clattered to the desk with a metallic thud.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time Lockwood didn’t hesitate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unwrapping the cloth, he laid the rapier out on his hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Lucy’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> rapier. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Italian one he had ordered for them after he lost his on top of the Vauxhall warehouse. His eyes burned with tears as he took in its battered appearance. With gentle hands, he carefully slid it into his belt alongside his own rapier. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He cleared his throat, forcing the lump in his throat down. “Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Barnes nodded.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s the least I can do considering the circumstances.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was an eternity of uncomfortable silence. None of them knew what to say. How often was Barnes in this situation? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What about her mum? Her sisters?” George asked. “Were you able to contact them?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Miss Carlyle’s mother and sisters are taking the evening train to London so they can confirm the identity of the body which will then be released to them,” Barnes said. “They should be in London by the next morning.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why can’t they identify the body? Why can’t Barnes? They’ve seen her. Was it that brutal, that her closest friends wouldn’t recognize her?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lockwood forced the thought away before he threw up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Holly gasped. “You can’t even identify her,” she stated horrified. “You haven’t even told us how she died? Can you tell us now, please? I’m sure I speak for all of us when I say we’d very much like to know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The body has to be identified by someone who was close to Ms. Carlyle. I was not,” Barnes stated. “I can not tell you that. I'm breaking every rule letting you take her things. I cannot tell you about DEPRAC’S ongoing investigation.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George puffed up like an indignant pigeon. “Why not? That’s not like you’re telling us </span>
  <em>
    <span>why</span>
  </em>
  <span> she was murdered or </span>
  <em>
    <span>who</span>
  </em>
  <span> murdered her. Cause of death is hardly confidential-” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Barnes almost shouted. “I know you are upset but this information won’t help you-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We deserve to know!” Lockwood hissed, eyes flashing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Absolutely not. Now, you have what you came here for. I can not help you anymore, this meeting is finished.”</span>
</p><p><span>*</span> <span>*</span> <span>*</span> <span>*</span> <span>*</span></p><p>
  <span>“That’s it then,” Holly glumly stated once they were outside. “We just wait until they tell us what happened.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George snorted. “That’s if they even do tell us and if what they say is the truth.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you really believe they’re going to tell us anything, Holly?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Surely, Barnes, at least, would tell us something.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Lockwood cut in, his voice harsh. “George is right. We can’t trust DEPRAC to tell us anything. We’ll have to find out ourselves. Someone has to know what happened and I </span>
  <em>
    <span>will</span>
  </em>
  <span> find them even if I have to question everyone in this city.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think you’ll have to question everyone. Did you see the paperwork that was on Barnes’ desk?” He adjusted his glasses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh yeah. There was a lot of papers and-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, yes,” George interrupted, “But the top sheet; did you see it?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Holly shook her head, “No, why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was a report. And from what I could see from where I was sitting, it was about Lucy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, what did it say?” Lockwood demanded. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Another body was found in St. James Churchyard early this morning. They think it was a furnace attendant from Clerkenwell. The time of death was only a few hours earlier than Lucy’s.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good job, George.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Life seemed to pour back into Lockwood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He always had lived for cases.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He bounded down the sidewalk, George and Holly staring after him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He got halfway down the street before he pivoted and yelled back at them, “What are you waiting for! We have a murderer to catch!”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Footnotes:<br/>[1] A hacienda, in the colonies of the Spanish Empire, is an estate, similar to a Roman latifundium<br/>[2] Or in Lockwood and Co.’s case an in with the head of DEPRAC.</p><p>Thanks for reading! Come talk to us on Tumblr @ george-the-pumpkin or run-i'm-a-natural-disaster</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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